Rise
by Elizabeth.Finch
Summary: [Two-Bit and the guys made a lot of jokes about Greenwood, the way that people always made jokes about the things that frighten them. They called it Little Africa and Soda had laughed at that once—like everyone else. But now that he was actually going over there, the humor went out of the situation in a real hurry.] Sodapop Curtis Oneshot.


**Disclaimer – **I don't own the Outsiders or the lyrics of "Midnight" by Coldplay.

**AN:** This is a super sensitive subject, so please don't kill me, but I've wanted to write this for a while now. There are also a few more Outsiders oneshots (can I get a yay for some more Mrs. C and Dally?) brewing in me, so keep an eye out.

**Warning: language and violence**.

* * *

><p><strong>Rise<strong>

_In the darkness before the dawn_

_Leave a light, a light on_

Some might say this began in 1921 with the Tulsa Race Riot. Others say it began in 1955 with that King fella raisin' all kinds of ruckus in Alabama. Still others say that this started long before any of that and Soda was more inclined to side with them.

After all, this was something that was buried deep in the soil, something that had been growing for too long, something that moved and crawled and lived and breathed, like a weed refusing to die. It could turn the air raw and full of welts in a split second and people were too entangled in it for anyone to know exactly who or what really started it. But Soda guessed he could say that, for him, it all began by the train tracks on a sweltering hot July afternoon in 1965.

xxx

He had never been good with dates, often had no clue what month it was let alone where his second sock was by the time dinner rolled around. But Sodapop Curtis was good with people and always had been. He could remember faces and names of even the most casual acquaintance. Steve used to make cracks that he was a walking phone book with all the people he knew. Soda let that slide with a customary laugh because it served him well on his job, among other things.

'Sides, it always impressed a girl when you could remember her name _and_ her favorite drink and Sodapop was all about making an impression.

But with his natural aversion to dates and such, it made things like history class difficult to pass. In Soda's mind, life was too exciting to be stuck in one place studying something that was already long gone and past when there were so many things happening right now.

That had all changed when he found the book though.

At ten years old, Soda's greatest concern was finding the lost bag of marbles that he had been scrounging around for in the linen closet for the last half hour. He just _knew_ were in there somewhere. Sometimes though, you find the most important things when you aren't even looking for them.

Thick and weighty and tucked away in a corner where someone thought no one would reach it, Soda managed to wrestle it out with a few well placed grunts and tugs. The book had been wrapped carefully in cloth soft as butter, either to protect it from dust or to protect it from being noticed. Feeling like he was breaking some kind of rule, Soda glanced around the house and unwrapped the book and ran his fingers over it curiously. That's when he found his mother's initials carved into the leather cover on the back.

It wasn't like him to actually want to sit down and read, but this had been hidden (and hidden by _mom_) which meant that it _must_ be full of secrets that he probably wasn't supposed to know about, so that meant that he _had_ to at least look at it.

And so he did and what he found he would never forget.

Pasted onto the first page was his mother. She looked to be about his age and the only way he knew it was her was by the label on the picture. She was skinny as all get out with knobby knees and wild, windblown hair standing in front of a really nice house with a wraparound porch with a big grin on her face. Next to her was a Negro woman that Soda had never seen before.

The woman had a round face and a rounder body but her smile looked as kind and gentle as wind chimes. Her arm was around his mother's shoulders and below the photo was the name "Nanny Edna May".

Soda had never heard his mother talk about this woman. Not even in passing. Furrowing his brow, he turned the page and found that the rest was a scrapbook of sorts. Years of his mother scouring newspapers, clipping out articles and photos and story after story after story and pasting them one after another. On some of them she had made notes and while those were interesting, just as before, it was the photos that captured Soda.

More like, it was the eyes.

At ten years old he stared at pictures of boys and girls, men and women, some with terror written into every line of their face and other with a cold, cold anger. The longer he stared the more it seemed that they began to stare back at him.

That afternoon Soda learned what the words "lynch" and "segregation" meant, but even more, he learned the faces and the stories of a people so foreign to him and anyone else he knew.

It was the jolting slam of the front door and Steve calling his name that sent Soda scrambling to cover the book up and stuff it under his bed. What he had just done was dangerous, even if he didn't quite know why—he could feel it wrap around his bones. What he also didn't know, and what bothered him the most, was why his mother had made it, made a book about such terrible, terrible things, and why she seemed to feel the need to hide it from all of them.

Soda never could gather up the courage to ask her about it all. He put the book back in its hiding place, under wrap, and never brought it out again. He knew what was in there now and that was enough to scare him for life.

xxx

July 2nd, 1965 was sticky.

That was the only thing Soda could think as he wiped off the back of his neck yet again. Sticky. Humid. Hot as the hinges of hell was probably the best way to describe it though.

Being so miserable and also being trapped at the railroad tracks as a train slowly inched and chugged on by in a damned old truck whose window only rolled a quarter of the way down in the middle of July heat had made even the happy-go-lucky Sodapop ready to kill something. He was anxious to get home; had a big date with Sandy tonight and the way he was sweating up a storm now only meant he'd have to shower before he left to pick her up.

Checking his watch, Soda cursed and hit the steering wheel. Time was flying by and he was stuck.

Mr. Morris, his boss, had even given in to his request to get off work early, so in reality he really should have had enough time… but here he was, and all because Two-Bit had needed a ride across town after his car broke down (_again_) and Soda wasn't the type to turn down a buddy. Even if he spent the rest of the afternoon cursing the big ole goofus.

Wiping his arm across his brow as sweat continued to drip into his eyes; Soda tapped his fingers against the stick shift and jiggled his leg up and down. Unable to stand being baked like a roast chicken any longer, Soda opened his door to let the air in and laid his head back on the seat and simply breathed. His eyes closed and tried to calm down as he listened to the train continue to pass by. He never really dozed off—he wasn't like Darry who could fall asleep anywhere, even with his eyes wide open—but he was able to finally relax a little.

The train's whistle went off, a long low note that Soda had always found oddly comforting. Like his mother's humming in the kitchen. It was home.

However, the gut-wrenching scream that followed wasn't.

Eyes snapping open, Soda jerked, instantly wide awake. He twisted in his seat, looking around, but there was no one else there for miles. No one but him and this damn train. Sighing, Soda rubbed a tired hand over his face and decided this was what he deserved for indulging his little brother and watching an Alfred Hitchcock movie with him last night. Damn _Psycho_ was making him paranoid.

Grunting grumpily, Soda wiped sweat away again and stretched his long legs out figuring—

A second scream.

This one was hoarser than the first but loud enough that Soda knew they were close by.

"… What the hell," he muttered to himself all the sudden feeling like a thousand tiny spiders were crawling up and down his back. Something was wrong.

Soda stepped out of the truck cautiously and glanced to the left where the train was finally coming to an end. One hand held onto the door in a white knuckle grip as his blood began to buzz. The only other place that someone might be was on the other side of this train.

His first glimpse of them came in brief flashes as the gaps between train cars rolled on by, but it was all he needed to see.

"Shit," Soda breathed. "Shit, shit, _shit_—"

Living on the north side, violence was a language. You either spoke it or you didn't. Most fights Soda had been in or seen were over girls and if not girls then they were over gangs and territory. This was different.

On the other side of the tracks was another car. A dust devil had been kicked up, as if it had just skidded to a stop and Soda had seen four men dragging a young man by one arm and one leg—a young man that was violently kicking and fighting back in only the way that someone who was convinced they were going to die can.

A young man who was distinctly black.

Another train car passed and blocked what little vision Soda had and another scream tore through the air, like a knife slicing open the sky and letting the heavens rain down. It was wordless and sounded like desperation and it made his jaw clench as his hand moved towards what he knew was lying in the bed of the truck.

_Five cars left_, Soda counted and shifted on the balls of his feet, his mind racing trying to figure out what to do. He was running out of time, but it was funny, almost, how many things he realized he could think about in the span of a few seconds. He thought about how much he itched for Steve to be there with him, right now. He thought about his mother and he missed her so tangibly that it ached. He thought about his mother, who hated violence, and what she might say to him—whether she would tell him to get in the truck or to quit being a coward. He thought about that book, that damned book and wondered if it was still there and if it was, if there was going to be an article from today to add to it. He thought about the date and how fucking cruel it was for something like this to happen on the one year anniversary of the Civil Rights Act.

He thought and his thoughts seemed to slowly disappear, floating away, laughing as they were caught on the wind and carried off.

And then all at once they were gone and so was the train.

The boy they had been carrying was curled up on the ground now as the four men gathered around and boxed him in, like an animal. That was when the sound of it all finally hit him and sound had never been physical for Soda before, but this was. The men's laughter and their fists and boots hitting flesh that was already torn open and raw were so real that they made him flinch—as if he was the one being beat.

Heart beating so fast he was sure it was going to leap out of his chest and burst blood and fire all over the ground before him, Soda gripped the metal door so hard it left painful marks on his hand. But he didn't care. Not anymore. Because one of the men broke away from their little mob and went for the trunk of the car to bring out a thick braided rope. The man then proceeded to calmly walk over and lasso it around the kid's neck, like you would a calf in the rodeo, and the kid gagged and somehow in the middle of his struggle he locked eyes with Soda across the tracks.

It was the eyes, the same eyes he saw when he stared at the people in his mother's book, the same eyes that Soda was convinced could see into him. The eyes that were pleading (_save me, save me, save me_).

"Fuck it." Soda broke gazes with the kid and then snatched the crowbar out of the back of his truck.

The men were so caught up in their game that they never saw him coming.

With a running start, Soda swung at the one closest to him, the one who had just spit in the kid's face, upper cutting him in the jaw with a sickening _thwack_ and dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

"—the hell!" One of them yelled out in surprise but Soda was already swinging again, this time hitting another one of them in the ribs completely knocking the breath out of him.

Soda had never enjoyed using weapons, didn't like the way they made him feel. But when he swung and nailed the third man right in the eye, the crunching sound was deeply satisfying in a way that frightened him.

The last one left, one with a big handlebar mustache and cowboy boots that weren't scuffed a bit because they were worn for show, backed up warily. Soda stepped over the young man lying on the ground gasping for air, putting him behind him before pointing the crowbar at Mustache. "You get back in your car and get the hell out of here before I knock your head off."

He didn't know this guy. He didn't know any of them. Had no idea who they were, where they were from, if they had families or good jobs, all Soda knew was that he would kill any one of them if they came any closer.

His hands tightened on the crowbar when Mustache stayed right where he was.

Mustache was staring him down, sweat trickling down the sides of his face. His teeth barred when he snarled back, "Listen fucker, you've got yourself so far up my nose that I can feel your boots on my chin. Now why don't you run along and let me finish what we came here to do 'fore I decide to put you in the ground, too."

Mustache was big. Bigger than Darry and he seemed plenty confident, even with Soda having a crowbar. But then his eyes flickered to the side and Soda could hear another body painfully gathering himself up.

Afraid for a second that he was suddenly outnumbered, Soda took one step back and to the side so that he could keep both men in view.

But it wasn't who he was expecting. It was the kid. Soda glanced over for a split second and saw him toss the rope off from around his neck. Despite looking like hell, he seemed like he was ready for a fight.

The kid was tough.

Grimly, Soda held out the crowbar to him and after a second's hesitation, the kid took it. In the meantime, Soda reached into his back pocket and flicked out his switch blade holding it loosely in his hand—just like Darry taught him.

"I swear to god," Soda spoke in a quiet rage, "I will slice your fucking throat open and spill your racist pig shit blood if you don't back off and leave now."

Mustache waited, eyed Sodapop with a calculating gaze and then looked over at the kid beside him. Something must've convinced him they weren't going to eat any shit today because he took his first step back. "Gettin' in the middle of this is gonna give you a lot of enemies, boy. It's just gonna leave you to get bit by hogs or wishin' you was."

"Good." Was all Soda could think to say and then he reached out, ignoring the kid's flinch, and pushed him so that they both could start stepping backwards and towards his truck. Finally reaching the train tracks, Soda told him quietly, "Get in the truck."

The kid did what was asked and Soda continued his slow walk back, keeping an eye on Mustache and his companions who had finally begun to stir. When Mustache broke the staring contest and went over to start helping his buddies, Soda took the chance and hurried into his truck. He started it up and threw it into reverse. Sure, it would be a lot faster taking this road the rest of the way home, but Soda didn't even trust driving by those fucks, so he backtracked.

The truck peeled away and that's when he started shaking something terrible.

Soda drove for a good five minutes, hell, he made that old truck _fly_, hardly even aware of the body sitting in the cab next to him. But it wasn't long until the shaking became too much and he had to pull off a side street into an empty parking lot and give himself a moment to panic.

Wide eyed and trembling, Soda gripped his hair to the roots with one hand as his stomach suddenly flipped and clenched and flipped again. Scrambling for the door, he jumped out and promptly vomited until his stomach had absolutely nothing left inside.

Bent over, he wiped his mouth and the middle Curtis glanced down and saw that he had missed some and there was a good bit of vomit on his shoes. A hysterical thought went through his head as he supposed that he definitely wouldn't be seeing Sandy tonight, covered in throw up and sweat and shaking like a leaf.

For some reason, the ridiculousness of that made Soda chuckle and the next thing he knew he was cracking up, falling back against the truck laughing hysterically until tears leaked out of the corner of his eyes.

He knew he was losing it and losing it bad. He knew he should pull himself together or else the kid... _shit_.

Soda whipped around suddenly and looked at his fellow passenger. He must've scared the hell out of him, laughin' like that. "Sorry. You probably think I've lost my damn mind."

The kid suddenly didn't look so much like a kid. He looked more like he was close to Soda's own age, but his build was better and his skin was so black that it was like night was seeping from him, even when he was covered in dust and blood. His lip was swollen and split, but he grinned over at Soda anyway. "I kinda figured you were crazy when you came out swingin' to kill with that crowbar."

"Yeah, well," Soda rubbed the back of his neck not quite believing it all himself and still feeling pretty hysterical. "That was definitely a first."

The guy grinned again and his lip split a little more causing him to wince as more blood trickled down his chin onto his neck. That was when Soda noticed that he was shaking even worse than he had been. Reality pierced through the panicked fog for one second and without a word, Soda went around to the back where Darry kept containers of water when he worked extra long hours. He grabbed one and uncapped it. The water was boiling hot from sitting in this heat all day, but it was better than nothing, he supposed. Inside the truck, Soda found an extra t-shirt and took it as well before coming around to the other side.

"Here," Soda said as he opened the other door. "You can clean up a bit… Say, what's your name?"

Dark eyes took Soda in and then cautiously he reached out and took the water and the shirt. "Titus. My name is Titus Gurley. What's yours?"

"Sodapop Curtis." Titus stared for a long while and Soda held up his hands in surrender. "I swear I'm not pulling one over you. That's my real name. I got a brother named Ponyboy, says so on his birth certificate."

"Your brother as crazy as you?" Titus cupped one hand and poured water into it and began rinsing the dirt and blood from his face.

"Naw. Pony's young, hasn't grown into it yet." Soda found himself grinning.

Titus didn't say anything but simply continued to clean himself up occasionally wincing around the larger cuts. Soda decided to let him be in peace and went to the back of the truck, unlatching the tailgate and hopping up.

The sun was setting and all Sodapop could think was how grateful he would be when this day ended and the heat finally drifted giving way to the thick night air.

Leaning his elbows on his knees, the coursing adrenaline finally slowed. He could hear Titus rinsing his mouth out and spitting repeatedly but Soda's mind began to trail off replaying over and over what he saw, what he heard, and how lucky they were to have gotten away.

Shit. What if he hadn't been there? What would have happened—

_Shit_.

The trembling was back, but this time it was lodged in his throat. A hot, swelling lump that refused to let him swallow. Soda cursed himself, he didn't want to break down and start bawling like a little baby in front of Titus. Hell, he hadn't been the one drug out to the train tracks, had a rope tied around his neck to be—

"Thanks," Titus' deep voice made Soda jump. The other teen stood there, face dripping wet, holding out what was left of the water and a now rung out shirt.

"Sure," Soda tossed the water back with the others and then turned and took in Titus' injuries. There was a large gash on his temple, a split lip, a swelled up eye, and from the way he kept turning and spitting out blood, Soda wondered how many teeth he had lost. Not to mention the hand on his right side holding onto his ribs. Pulling out his blade, Soda cut off a piece of the shirt and handed it to Titus. "Bite on that until the blood stops. My older brother should have a first aid kit somewhere in the truck, maybe in the glove box. Give me a sec and I can find it."

"I'll be fine. This ain't my first beating, you know," Titus shook his head and bit down on the torn cloth with a grimace. Soda simply stopped breathing. "I meant thanks… for earlier."

The lump was back in his throat, refilling quickly with that molten liquid. "You don't," Soda swallowed hard. "You don't gotta say thanks for that."

Titus nodded and then shifted on his feet and Soda realized that he had no idea what to say to him or how to talk to him. He didn't know anything about blacks, had hardly even been around them. But Soda was good with people, always had been, and if he knew anything, he knew that after today, Titus probably wanted nothing more than to get home to his family.

Clearing his throat, Soda motioned a little uselessly with his hand. "Listen, do you need a ride or somethin'?" A long pause and Soda grinned. "Don't worry, I ain't gonna cook you and eat you."

Titus was frowning and Soda wondered if he'd said something wrong. Funny, he'd never really had to wonder about that before.

There was another awkward bubble of silence before Titus simply said, "White people don't come where I live."

That hurt, it stung like a hornet, and Soda couldn't even explain why but it did.

"I'm not letting you walk home, man. Not after today." Soda said quietly.

"Alright." Titus' voice was calm and his eyes anything but.

"Alright," Soda repeated with a nod and then hopped off the truck. Both of them climbed into the cab and he revved the engine. "Where do you live?" He asked, even though he already knew the answer. Everyone knew the answer.

Two-Bit and the guys made a lot of jokes about Greenwood, the way that people always made jokes about the things that frightened them but couldn't be gotten away from. They called it Little Africa and made cracks about what kind of diseases someone might get if they went over there.

Soda had laughed at those jokes once—like everyone else did. But after today, the humor went out of the situation in a real hurry.

"Greenwood Avenue and Archer Street. It's not far."

Not far. Soda thought it could've been oceans away.

Titus' shoulders were stiff and he was sitting ramrod straight. Soda again realized, uncomfortably, that he had no idea how to talk to him. So he figured he better learn quick or this was going to be a long ride for the both of them. "What kinda music you listen to?"

Titus had jumped when Soda spoke and his answer was delayed but there was a little more life in his voice. "Soul. Mainly James Brown, Marvin Gaye, those guys… You never heard of them?"

"Heard of them. Never listened."

"Are you telling me you've never heard '_It's a Man's World_'?"

"Nope."

"'_I Heard It Through The Grapevine'_?"

"Heard what?"

"Don't mess with my head, man. It's been kicked in enough already."

"I ain't messin'," Soda shook his head emphatically.

"You're missing out on life then. What kind of music are you into?"

"Elvis."

Titus shook his head and sighed like someone who was putting up with a very small child's antics. "I shoulda known. You need to be reeducated."

Soda flipped on the radio, which of course, was blaring out Elvis at the moment and laughed at the face Titus made as he heard it. "Fine then," he motioned to the radio. "Educate me. Put on whatever it is you want and we'll see if you can convince me by the time we get to Greenwood."

The rest of the ride Titus never was able to pull up a radio station that was playing James Brown or Marvin Gaye. So they had to settle for the Temptations and Soda ended up digging, "_My Girl_" pretty well.

Maybe he'd have Sandy give it a listen.

They crossed over the border—an invisible border—and Soda tried not to be too obvious in his staring as he went into a part of Tulsa that he had never been. But in reality, he felt intimidated as hell and was glad for the radio being on so that he didn't have to try and make conversation.

Greenwood wasn't a different country. It didn't even look that different from his own neighborhood. Both had seen better days at this point with the run down houses and rusty old gates and junk yard cars. The only thing that was different was him. Soda stuck out like a sore thumb and some of the people out on the street stopped to stare as he and Titus drove on by.

Soda was used to attention but not this kind.

It made him want to squirm, like he was in a fishbowl, and at the same time it made him wonder if this was how Titus felt all the time.

Hell, what a way to live.

Titus directed him and they got to his place fairly easily and Soda kept his thoughts to himself. When they pulled up to a small house with faded white paint and a painstakingly cared for garden in front of the porch, Soda turned off the radio.

The two sat there in silence, Soda taking in the house and Titus biting on the torn bit of shirt. Kids were laughing somewhere not too far off and there was music coming from a house three spots down and the two of them sat there in their two different worlds that had somehow been thrust together.

"Listen," Soda finally began. "I hope you don't mind me askin' but… what happened back there?"

A long pause and then—

"Walking in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Soda frowned. "Things take a while to settle in 'round here, don't they?"

The middle Curtis brother might not have been good with dates but even he knew what today was.

_Everyone_ knew what today was.

That's why the city was burning today, maybe that's why it was so damned hot, why Soda was more on edge than he usually was, why those men had done what they done. It was in the air. There were no columns of smoke, no raging fires, not even a trace of ash; but the city was burning nonetheless. It was catching fire without a single match being lit and to be honest, the whole thing downright scared the shit out of him.

Still did. Still does.

But Sodapop Curtis had done something about it today and he was sure he should feel proud about it… but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to. It wasn't that he was ashamed, he knew he had done the right thing, this was just more complicated than the kind of emotions that he was used to dealing with.

This was uncomfortable. This was unfair. This was unjust.

This was fucking _Tulsa_ not goddamn Mississippi.

"Titus." A questioning voice called out and both he and Soda turned to look at the young woman standing on the porch with her hand gripping the railing for support.

She had her eyes locked on Soda, fearfully, but when she took in Titus they widened and she let out a gasp before flying down the porch steps and running straight over to the truck.

She didn't wait for Titus to open the door; she did it herself and practically climbed half way in after him. Her hands reached for his face and he winced and drew away from her wandering fingers. "What happened? What did they do to you? Are you alright?" She didn't give him a single second to answer and then her voice grew hard and in volume. "Titus, you answer me when I'm talking to you!"

"I will if you give me a chance!" Her arms crossed over her chest and she raised her eyebrows expectantly. Titus sighed, exasperated, and then gentled his voice. "Go on inside. I'll be there in a minute and tell you everything."

The young woman narrowed her eyes and Soda thought she could give Darry a run for his money with that stare. Then her gaze flickered over to Soda and they flashed with an emotion that he couldn't place because he was pretty damn sure it was one he had never felt.

"Fine." She said decidedly, pursing her lips and then going back to the house.

When she was out of earshot, Titus groaned. "Alice, my sister. I'd say she's normally more friendly than this but…"

Soda grinned and nodded and watched as she turned to give them one last glance before going inside. Alice Gurley was a lot like Titus—black as the ace of spades but Soda also thought she was beautiful as sin itself. He just didn't see girls like that every day.

"I know you don't wanna hear it, but I'm going to say it: thank you. Friends?"

Titus held out his hand and his eyes earnest and nervous. Soda reached over and took it giving it a good shake feeling something permanent settling in between the two of them.

He kept a grip on the other teen's hand, terrified for some reason of what would happen when he let go. Soda struggled for words (_what_ _the hell would anyone say in a situation like this?_). And then eyes burning and throat on fire, Soda choked in a careful squeezed kind of voice, "It was nice to meet you, Titus. Maybe not the way, but I'm glad I met you."

Titus' eyes searched Soda's face for a moment, his brows tight, looking like he was debating on whether or not to speak. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. His tone, when he spoke, was kind.

"Take care of yourself, Sodapop."

"You too."

Titus moved then, gingerly, and got out of the truck. He walked slowly up the path to his house, one hand on his ribs, and Soda watched him go. Titus never looked back, just kept moving, and Soda pulled away from the curb.

The truck rumbled through the neighborhood and Soda let it amble on through. He didn't notice the stares as much this time, his mind was elsewhere—back on the train tracks and back in an old heavy book. He never felt as nakedly haunted as he did right then and there. For the first time in his life, Sodapop felt _old_. Not in the bone ache way, but in a way that made his shoulders slump and his eyes tired, so tired. Something had shifted inside of him today and he couldn't even put a name to it.

Not wanting to go on home yet, not wanting to have to hide it all just yet, Soda pulled back into that same old parking lot and sat there for a good long while. He sat there and stared out the windshield blankly before breaking down and sobbing like a child leaving him feeling raw—like he had been scrubbed clean from the inside out.

There were some things in Soda's life that he would never tell another soul. Like how he had spent too many afternoons down at the local corner store sniffing every single aftershave he could find to try and track down his father's scent. Or how on the night of his parents funeral he had caught Darry bawling outside in the truck, shaking and heaving with tears pouring down his face, and for the longest time all that would come out of his big brother's mouth was, "_I can't._"

Soda had become good at keeping things to himself, at least the important things.

Titus Gurley and what happened on those train tracks would become one of those things.


End file.
